


Cullen, Marksman

by tollofthebells



Series: Ellinor Trevelyan [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cullenlingus (Dragon Age), Cunnilingus, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Humor, Jealousy, Mild Smut, Neck Kissing, One Shot, Smut, i hate that i'm actually using the cullenlingus tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-26 06:18:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20737595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tollofthebells/pseuds/tollofthebells
Summary: The attention Ellinor gets from nobles at Skyhold has Cullen realizing he wants to give her some attention of his own.





	Cullen, Marksman

“Lord Dumont, it’s been a pleasure,” Ellinor murmurs with a slight curtsy, lowering her eyes demurely. The tulle of her skirts _swishes _in her hands when she sinks toward the floor, _crinkles_ when she rises and releases them.

The nobleman purrs in response.

She nearly roll her eyes. Nearly.

“I should hope that we hear from the Inquisition again soon, my lady,” he says, nasally Orlesian accent punctuating every syllable of every word, and it’s only when she smiles politely and averts her eyes with a tinkling laugh that she sees Cullen eyeing her from main doorway to the hall, arms crossed, a scowl on his lips.

“I’m sure Ambassador Montilyet will be in touch should we ever have need of your lands in Val Firmin,” she confirms, extending her hand when the lord reaches for it, allowing his chapped lips and oily beard to brush across her knuckles before pulling back. She doesn’t need to look to know Cullen’s frown would deepen at the act but she does, and it has.

“Or if you should have need of...anything _else_,” Lord Dumont adds with a wink, and she can _see _Cullen break his stance, “you need only say the word, Lady Trevelyan.”

She forces another smile. _Here he comes_, she thinks, watching from the corner of her eye as Cullen crosses the hall toward them. “I’ll keep that in mind, my lord.”

The commander stops abruptly behind Lord Dumont, his stature dwarfing the Orlesian, and if she didn’t know better she might think he’s _purposely _standing straighter, taller, squaring his shoulders when he clears his throat. “Lady Trevelyan.”

“Oh!” Lord Dumont jump, nearly tripping over his feet at the sudden announcement, and it’s all she can do to keep from laughing. “Oh, my, I—”

“I should like to borrow the Inquisitor,” Cullen says gruffly, and Ellinor bites her lip to stop her smirk.

“Of course, Commander,” she replies elegantly, curtsying once more to Lord Dumont. “My lord, if you’ll excuse us.”

They don’t wait for an answer—Cullen’s already turned on his heels and made for the main entrance when Ellinor grasps her skirts and chases after him. Or at least, follows behind at an accelerated pace, which is about as close to chasing as she can get under the eyes of the countless nobles Josephine has invited to visit Skyhold.

“What was _that_?” she snorts once they’re outside, finally letting her dainty smile turns into a teasing grin.

“Nothing,” he mutters, cheeks flushing in the soft morning sunlight. He takes her hand, they’re hardly hidden from the curious gazes of his recruits and guards that pass them by on the ramparts but he doesn’t care. He hasn’t in a while. _They’re safe, nobles aren’t_, those are the established rules of their still-new relationship and it’s fine with her, and it’s usually fine with him too, but—

“What is it that you wanted me for, then?” she presses as he leads her—more urgently than normal—toward his tower, his gloved hand tightening around hers when he pushes the door open.

“Cullen!”

No sooner does the door swing shut than she’s pressed up against it, her body right between the heavy oak and the broad expanse of his chest and _thank the Maker he’s skipped the armor today _because in seconds he’s kissing her, and he’s released her hand now, holds her by the waist first and then the shoulders.

“What’s gotten into you this morning?” she giggles when he finally comes up for air—or perhaps to pull his gloves off his hands, which he does quickly, in one swift motion each, before weaving them into her hair.

“What are you—”

“Please?” he asks, the corners of his honey golden eyes crinkling as he gives her a small smile. She flushes a little when he tugs at the braid a second time, just gently, and _oh, Josephine spent _so _long on them this morning, but_… It’s only late morning. They have _some _time before their war council, and the way his eyes plead with hers…

“All right,” she gives in, and in seconds he’s guiding toward his ladder, urging her upstairs. “Although why you’re so insistent this time is—”

Her thoughts are left unfinished after they reach the top, though, his lips capturing hers nearly as soon as he’s pulled himself up onto the floor, and his kisses are warm, and softer this time, and still tasting of the honey herbal tea he must’ve had with breakfast, and the uncharacteristic boldness and the sweet taste of his questing lips is almost just _nearly _distracting enough for her not to notice him untie her hair ribbons, loosen her hair inch by inch with fingers far more deft than he should be allowed, pulling and tugging gently until her hair is completely undone and the sparkling ribbons Josephine had used to impress their current flock of nobility are forgotten, crinkled in his hands.

She pulls her lips from his, smirking at the impatient noise he makes when his next kiss meets air instead of her mouth, and tugs the ribbons gently from his hands. He releases them easily, eager to run his fingers through her freshly unbraided tresses as he steps them slowly further from his ladder, the waves of her hair like silk in his hands. “Do not,” she says firmly, pulling his hand from her hair, “lose these.” With painstaking care, she ties each of her three ribbons around his wrist.

“All _right_,” he mumbles, leaning into her again, and she holds her forefinger to his lips to stop him.

“Cullen,” she teases, a glint of laughter in her eyes, “were you _jealous_ of Lord Dumont?”

He blinks. “Was I jealous?” he echoes, continuing to walk her, backwards, toward his bed. “Would it...bother you if I was?”

“Not at all,” she replies with a quizzical look, “he was quite annoying if you ask me anyway. But you can’t fault Josephine for continuing to parade me in front of noblemen when no one knows I’m with someone _else_.” She emphasizes the last word, squeezing his biceps teasingly with her fingers. “My _availability _is winning us many favors. You should be glad.”

“Are _you _glad?” he counters, and she shrugs, falling backwards onto his bed.

“For as long as the lie remains harmless, sure.”

“And do you want Lord Dumont to think you’re...available?”

She snorts. “Not particularly. He’s a bit...slimy, and he smells like old…”

His eyes light up with a certain deviousness she’s seen in him only once before, weeks earlier when they’d stumbled upon Cassandra’s stash of novels during a brief getaway tryst above the quartermaster’s rooms and he’d been overjoyed at the counter-blackmailing he could do next time she tried to coerce him into leading the shield drills.

“Cullen...” she warns. He ignores her, leaning down and nipping the soft skin of her neck lightly before taking it between his lips and sucking on it. She knows exactly what he wants to do. “Cullen, don’t you da—ah!” she yelps when he sinks his teeth into her entirely.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he whispers, kissing her sweetly, slowly, where the bite mark begins to redden. She’s not sure where—_when_—he learned to be so bold in such matters but it’s sudden and it’s unexpected and it’s...very distracting. His breath is hot on her neck and yet every soft puff of air feels cool against the spot he’s bitten, and she has to squeeze her eyes shut to stop herself from thinking about the warm heat of his body hovering above her and _worse_, the just-as-warm heat growing between her thighs when she feels his own on either side of her hips, sinking the mattress down where they lie.

If she didn’t know him better she’d think she could hear him _laugh_. “Would you like me to stop?” he inquires.

“I _would_,” she says through gritted teeth, she _knows _what he’s doing—making very well sure she won’t appear visibly _available _anymore—and he begins to nip at her skin again.

“Well, I suppose I could...”

Smooth lips float over the swollen skin where his teeth had been like soothing relief, and they haven’t spent much time like _this _together and yet he already knows her weak spots—_there_ beneath her earlobe, the area he _knows_ will have her melting like honey under his fingertips—and he’s not afraid to use them. Not this time, apparently.

“No,” she sighs finally. “Don’t stop.”

His grin is absolutely devilish at the sound of her words—_I’ve created a monster_, she thinks—and he whispers into the goosebumps rising on her collarbone as he kisses his way down to the lace neckline of her dress: _as my lady Inquisitor commands._

Determined if somewhat hesitant hands reach back to the bottom of her skirts, pulling them up over her knees, up to her hips only after she nods her consent, and he disappears beneath them as quickly as he’d lost his gloves and if the open weakness of her neck hadn’t been enough, she knows she grants him infinite power there between her thighs—an open opportunity to have her trembling before him, if he does it right.

And _oh_, he does.

The quickly sucked-in breath turns to a barely held-back whine as he continues with his work, and when she grips his coverlet in her fists, he laughs, she can feel the rumble of his voice on the inside of her thighs when he kisses her there. He taps his fingertips against her hips as he holds onto them. “To think only a few minutes ago you wanted no part of this,” he mutters, and she can _just _catch the hint of nerves in his voice, the ever-present trace of awe that he’s doing any of this to her—_with_ her—at all.

“I’ve changed my mind since then,” she mumbles, breathing in sharply when he nips her thigh.

“So you have,” he breathes, kissing her once more, and she closes her eyes, exhaling slowly as the midmorning sun rises over them and casts a soft warmth over them in his quarters.

* * *

“_No_,” she insists when some Maker-forsaker intruder knocks on his office door some time later. It must be near noon now, she _knows _they have a war council soon enough and yet her gown is in a heap on the floor, her every care seemingly far away now that they lie still, peaceful, beneath the covers.

“Lin,” he laughs.

“No,” she repeats, eyes closed, when he moves to get out of bed, her hand reaching blindly to find him. He can’t resist the sleepy tug she gives him when it does. “We’re napping.”

“Are we?” he chuckles. “Maybe _you’re_ napping.”

“_We’re_ napping,” she repeats, nuzzling his shoulder, pulling the covers back up to her nose. Whoever is downstairs can wait. The war council can wait. The _Inquisition_ can wait, so help her—she’s curled up in Cullen’s arms on a sunny morning, warm and happy and a bit _sore_ if she’s being honest, at least below her earlobes, and—

“I swear on the Maker, Cullen, if you don’t open this _Blighted _door!”

She rolls over to meet his eyes.

“Dorian,” they whisper simultaneously.

“—then I will blast a hole _right _through it and—”

“I’m _coming_!” Cullen shouts, getting out of bed with a last apologetic look toward her. He yanks his trousers on quickly, and then his shirt, and then he’s halfway down the ladder by the time Ellinor starts to collect her gown off the floor.

“—don’t know _what _in the world you’re holed up in here for…” Dorian continues from outside, trailing off, Ellinor supposes, when Cullen pulls the door open. “Oh,” he mutters, and she can hear the elegant _clack_ of his boots when he enters the office, “never mind. I see. Although I wish I didn’t have to.”

“There’s nothing to see,” Cullen argues awkwardly, and Ellinor rolls her eyes, hastily pulling her gown up and fastening the hooks behind her back.

“Either those are Ellinor’s hair ribbons around your wrist or you’ve suddenly acquired a very tacky taste for accessories.”

She’s barely finished sliding her shoes on when she descends the ladder herself, Cullen and Dorian seemingly at a standstill below.

“I’m sure you were banging on my office door for a reason?” Cullen snaps. Their friendship is good-natured, she knows, but not without its fair share of butting heads.

“Yes,” Dorian sighs, bored, “Josephine is looking for the two of you. Unfortunate that she found me and Sera before she found one of her own runners. Even less fortunate that I lost the draw to have to go and search for you.”

“How unfortunate,” Cullen deadpans while Ellinor finally reaches the first floor, flashing a friendly if guilty smile at Dorian. “I’m so sorry.”

“At least your better half’s arrived,” Dorian says dully. “Ellinor, save me from your tacky ribboned boyfriend before he burns me alive with that glare of his.”

“Oh, stop,” Ellinor admonishes. “He doesn’t bite.”

Dorian scowls, looking over the two of them—Cullen with her ribbons around his wrist, Ellinor with her hair undone, her arms crossed.

“The state of your neck suggests otherwise,” he mutters.

**Author's Note:**

> juuuuuust a lil something i've been holding onto (it was meant to go into my main longfic but i haven't really had room for it yet)


End file.
